Not A Thing To Worry About
by Jehilew
Summary: That doesn't stop her from hearing him, though. "'Til next time, then," he calls out, and she can hear the damn laugh in his voice...
1. Not A Thing To Worry About

**A little fic inspired by '_To Rogue, From Remy'_, because I'd wanted to incorporate my headcanon that Rogue's favorite color is _not_ green, and how Remy had figured that out. It went too long and didn't fit into that particular fic, so...here we are. Enjoy!**

**—•oOo•—**

"Let's play a game, you an' me, chere."

She shoots him a look out the corner of her eye and through her lashes. "A game, Cajun?" She asks him, trying her damndest to ignore the fact that he's sitting too close to her on a roof under a gorgeous starry sky, and looking entirely too damn good while he's about it.

Anyone else would consider this situation one ripe with hot romantic potential, and flirt her ass off at the beautiful man who is always receptive to such advances from a pretty gal.

Anyone else but her. Because she can't. Romance isn't for her, and neither is the man known as Gambit, not really, no matter what he too glibly says otherwise.

"Mm-hm, a game," he repeats in a warm tone lit with humor, his unusual eyes bright as fireflies in the dark.

"Huh," she grunts sourly, looking away, "that all anything is to you, some dumb game?"

She knows she's being a bitch to him for no real reason, and it stings a little, going opposite of how she'd like to be. Because she wants to play, wants to so badly. She _likes_ him, she wants him to like her, and she wants to know him.

But she knows it's all a downhill slide, because she's already sliding too fast, and unlike him, she can't easily climb back up.

"Non, not everything," he replies, his expression sliding from rakish to serious on a flick of his eyes over her profile. It simultaneously makes her heart surge into her throat and hollows out her gut, his intensity, and she knows she'll be over-analyzing every noise out of his face for the rest of the night at this rate. "But some things, yeah, and this right here is."

"_This_?" She echoes warily, sliding him another sideways look. She's a bit (a lot) unsure if he means what he's about to suggest, or her, or them, or— "what's 'this'?"

He cocks her a smirk engineered to drop panties and burst hearts, and his eyes flash like the grade-A lady-killer he is. "Two lies, and a truth, chere. You guess the truth, and I tell you another. And vice versa."

She snorts and stares at him. She's beyond intrigued; if she guesses him right, she'd have two given truths and two implied ones out of him every turn. Depending on how many turns they take, this hard man to learn might give her more tonight than he has in the several months she's known him. And she wants to know him, which is setting off all kinds of sirens— "really, shug? A bit juvenile, don'cha think? Besides, it's two truths and a lie, ain't it?"

He shrugs. "Maybe I ain't got so many truths that're so easy to share as that, yeah?" His eyes turn curious on her, and then he shrugs and continues, "an' maybe it's the same for you, too, Ms. No-Name."

She stills for a moment, guarded. Then she shrugs in some relief as she realizes he won't pry even though he's pushing, and looks away. "Then why you wanna play it, huh?"

He chuckles deep in his throat, and it makes everything between her navel and her knees clench in a shot of pleasure. God, what would it be like to have him do that same laugh against her skin— "'Cause I like knowin' you a little more, Rogue, that's why."

She flushes clear to her feet. Stupid, stupid girl, getting all spun up over a man at all, let alone one like him, and getting flustered over a dumb game for teenagers. "Whatever. I guess," she concedes in a huff and a sharp flick of her hand at him, her tone maybe a tad too harsh. "I like dogs better than cats, any dessert's made better with lots of whipped cream, and my favorite color's green."

He whistles at her response, then throws her a grin that has her digging her toes into her flip flops. "So very glad to know you like cats best, chere, might have to find me 'nother girl to get to know otherwise. Whipped cream, eh?" His grin turns positively gross and still somehow charming, "mais, I can work wit' that, I like me some whipped cream on..._desserts_...too." He pulls a drag off his smoke and blows it away from her before continuing, "and bullshit, green's y' favorite color."

Her brows knot up at him. "Look at you, actin' like you actually know all that," she scoffs, hiding how naked he's just stripped her, rattling off all her truths like he's known her forever! It's not fair, because she hardly knows anything about him!

He takes another puff off his cigarette, and blows the smoke out in a series of circles inside of circles before easily answering, "chere, you don't gotta say everything for someone to know something about you." He shrugs easily and continues, "you gotta room full of stuffed animals, and they're all cats, a few bears, a turtle, a duck, and a couple of horses. Didn't see no dogs in that mix, so I figured you a cat lady in the makin'. Whipped cream, mais, of course that ain't a lie, who lives and don't like whipped cream? Plus, I seen how you eat y' pancakes. As for your favorite color, that's blue. Light blue. You gotta little of it everywhere. Clothes, in your room, and," his eyes slide appreciatively down her legs to her feet, "it's the color of your favorite flip flops."

She nearly chokes on her tongue at the way he'd just looked her over. She's aware of her looks, and she's aware that men appreciate them. She's also aware of how quickly men lose interest once they know, and as a result, nothing ever escalates.

This man knows, he's still interested, and it's definitely escalating. Well, it is for _her_, anyway. The fact that he's so obviously chasing her (giddy thought, that—no one has ever pursued her!), a man so goddamn mouthwatering, she's literally drooled while staring at him from a distance (in her defense, he'd been shirtless in the Danger Room, and she hadn't been the only one drooling)...

Well, it's a heady situation, him being so unsubtle in his pursuit. So unsubtle, that he's noticed such little things about her, and he wants to know more.

It excites her, terrifies her, makes her nervous, and makes her absolutely, ridiculously, stupidly _giddy_—

"Whatever," she grunts at him and looks away. "You're right about the cats and the whipped cream," she grudgingly admits, "but green is _too_, my favorite color," she insists maybe a smidge too snappishly, then flushes and dials her tone back a little (a lot), "I mean, I wear it all the dang time, and—wait, what're you laughin' at?"

"You, sittin' over there, all hissy-fied 'cause I guessed 'em all right," he rejoins, not actually laughing, though he might as well be, with the way those eyes are sparking. Then he softens a second, that fine-drawn mouth tugging out of his usual smirk into a genuine smile. "Now, how about that other truth you owe me, yeah?"

_That_ smile rarely shows, and when it does, it does things to her.

She scowls at him. "No, I ain't," she snaps, her voice getting loud enough to make even her cringe, "I said green's my favorite color, and so it is, and I don't owe you nothin'."

_There_, she thinks, _he can't damn well argue with something that final—_

He hoots at the sky. Just...shifts back on his hands, his arm brushing hers, his thigh bumping hers, his hand placed so close to hers, she's itching to wriggle her ring and pinky fingers over and through his, and _tosses_ his pretty head back and _laughs_ at the stupid stars—!

Before she can gather her momentarily scattered wits and snatch away from him, he slides her a wildly uncharacteristic open look, his smile easy, and his eyes flashing a humored light show, the tip-tilted corners crinkling in such a way as to make her want to kiss them.

_Stunning eyes_, she thinks, _and he's beautiful when he laughs_...

Impulse has her reaching out before thought, and she only catches herself when his eyes drop to track her hand, her fingertips already halfway to tracing those lines around his eyes.

"I—I'm sorry, I just—!" She makes to pull back, utterly mortified. She hadn't thought! At all! She can't just...just go touching people, touching _him_, as much as she'd like to, as badly as she wants to know the texture of his hair, the bristle of his jaw, the feel of his skin—

She was _stupid_, and she can't _believe_—!

He reaches out, curls his fingers around hers, his thumb running slow across her knuckles and scattering her shot wits further. "Ain't nothin' to be sorry about, chere. You just what?"

"It's nothin', I—I gotta _go_," she stutters sharply, frantically yanking her hand out of his, already airborne to fly off and maybe die somewhere in her embarrassment and shame.

_God_, she'd almost touched him, and it matters not one bit that she has gloves on, what if she gets into the habit of touching him, because she totally could, and she unthinkingly does it one time without gloves, what if—she could've _killed_ him, what if she _does_…!

"You didn't have nowhere to be til jus' now," he comments easily, then pats the spot next to him she'd just vacated. "Come back here, girl, you ain't done nothin' to run off from. 'Sides," he adds with a grin that makes her wish she could lick it off his face, "you absolutely do still owe me another truth, and I still gotta turn."

She swallows hard, eyes trained back to his hand patting that spot so close to him, where her butt had just vacated. _He has nice hands_, she thinks, _I wish—_

She abruptly stops that train of thought and jerks a glare up to his face. She can't be thinking about his hands, and how they feel on her. Because she knows they touch well, he's always been hands-on with her.

"N-no, I don't think so," she snaps at him, defensively moving up higher out of his reach, the hand he'd had earlier clutched to her chest. "And I—uh, I do have somewhere to go—" she stammers out, her brain frantically searching for just where that _somewhere_ could be, and drawing a blank—"I need to go to bed—" (that trips her up, because goddammit, now she's imagining him in her bed)—"'cause _yes_, I hafta meet Logan early in the Danger Room tomorrow, and I ain't got _time_ for your dang games, swamp rat!"

He grins up at her, practically showing off every tooth in his head, and looking a whole lot like he wants to suck her up and swallow her whole. "'S real important stuff, goin' to bed at a decent time. Me, I like nothin' more than beddin' down at a good hour, too." She flushes hotly, her mind already imagining— "ain't nothin' quite like stretchin' out across y' bed, nothing but sheets on y' skin, and passin' out after a fun night, knowing you about to wake up to more fun wit' someone in the morning, no?"

She glitches hard at the images flooding her brain. Images of him stretched out naked over his bed, a sheet tangled up around one of his legs. Him, sound asleep, his hair a wonderful mess. Him, with his scratchy face on her chest, his arms circled up under her, her leg casually slung up over his back.

Him, waking up with a grin and blazing eyes, moving up over her for more fun—

"Sure you don't wanna stay an' play the game, chere?" His teasing has her rapidly blinking her eyes and snapping out of the fantasy. "Might could shape up into a real good time here, you an' me gettin' to kno—"

"_No_," she huffs out entirely way too forcefully to ever be convincing, "I _don't_," she adds for good measure. His grin only widens, and she panics, because really, she can only take so much of his teasing before she _really_ says or does something too over-the-top to be taken seriously. "I, uh, yeah—I really gotta, you know, _go_. To bed. Not to—uh—well..._anyways_," she practically ends on a hiss at him, "I got _things_ to do tomorrow, so you can just keep your games to yourself, Gambit, I ain't got time for 'em."

She doesn't wait for his reaction, instead whirling up in the air and flying off before she either makes a bigger idiot of herself, or shoves that jackass Cajun off the roof for his dumb nonsense.

That doesn't stop her from hearing him, though. "'Til next time, then," he calls out, and she can hear the damn laugh in his voice, "sweet sleep, chere. Be sure t' not dream about me at _all_, y' hear?"

"_Uuuuurrrrgh_," she groans loudly in frustration, not giving even half a damn if he hears it not, and practically chases the sound barrier, she can't get away fast enough. Because goddammit, now it's guaranteed that she'll dream about him, and start doing so about the second her head hits the pillow—

"_Shit_," she hisses, realizing just a tad too late that she's not headed for bed like she'd insisted she was doing. And he'd noticed, too, the asswipe, hence his laughed-out comment.

"Stupid, _stupid_ girl," she growls at herself, not slowing down for a second. Hell, he already knows she's not following through on her out. No sense in turning back now, she'd only look like a bigger dumbass if he's still there to see her fly in.

"Maybe he'll forget I did that," she mutters, changing course to shoot straight up for the best view of the stars she can do, "hell, maybe he'll forget the whole stupid evening while he's at it. '_Green is too, my favorite color_'," she mocks herself miserably.

_Miserably_, because she knows he won't forget a thing from tonight. Experience has taught her that man remembers everything, her idiotic shit and all.

Experience has also taught her that he'll pull from any of it to flirt with her, tease her, tempt her, and sometimes (more recently, a _lot_ of times, if she's being truthful)… just to talk to her.

That's when he throws her. His advances, she can usually deal with just fine, because those are only eventual disappointments and he's casual enough about it that it almost seems like it doesn't matter how she answers. But the being _friendly_ part?

He takes her quite seriously then, like she matters, and he's still _interested_, the chemistry is always there, and he's so hard to tell 'no', yet she can't say 'yes'. She doesn't know what to do with that. She doesn't know what to do with _him_.

"Oh well," she sighs somewhat helplessly, punching up through the last cloud and up into the stratosphere, "at least he won't stick around long, you'll eventually run 'im off," she murmurs, looking up through the thinning atmosphere, eyes tracing the stunning starscape above her. "Hell, he probably won't even stay with the X-men that much longer, and then you ain't gotta thing to worry about."

The sky gives her none of its usual peace, instead damn near _insulting_ her restlessness with its lack of turbulence, which only serves to ratchet up her nerves by at least a thousand notches.

She huffs into the thinned air, her laugh equal parts bitter and excited, her heart already equal parts broken at the thought that he'll leave her and excited that it's already his to break in the first place.

"Nope, not a _thing_ to worry about at all, huh, you silly girl."


	2. Chapter 2

**Second part here. Remy gets a turn!**

_**Lifeseverchanging**_**: Awww, thanks love! Young, angsty Rogue is such a treat to write, glad you enjoyed her;)**

_**CodeAliasWave**_**: Ask, and you shall receive! He gives a little away, too, in this chapter;) I personally love the idea that green isn't her fave color, as you already know; I tend to think she'd favor yellow, or violet. Girl is bold, and needs bold colors! Anyway, glad you liked Rogue last chapter, hope you enjoy Remy in this one:)**

_**Kalternativa**_**: Well, here you are, Remy's turn;) And yes, Rogue wants him something fierce, though I think she sees the writing on the wall with him, sees him for the heartbreaker he'll be for her. Just...maybe not in the way she'd expected, poor girl…**

_**Xevg-x**_**: Thank you, dear! I'm loving that you loved it so much:) I, too, wish we could get more in depth stuff like this in the comics, it'd flesh out our favorites so much more! Alas, that's the stuff for fanfic, it seems, haha! Anyway, Remy's maybe not as unflappable as he appeared last chapter, as you can see this go;) And Rogue is...well. You never know which mood you'll catch, so I hope she's fun to read here, too!**

_**Guest**_**: Awww, thank you so much, I'm so happy you enjoyed this! I hope you come back for this chapter, too!**

_**Tx peppa**_**: Back by popular demand, miss ma'am! Hope Remy's turn does it for ya;)**

_**Guest**_**: Well, your reason for loving green being Rogue's favorite color is actually one of mine why it isn't—it's so predictable, her being a redhead with green eyes favoring green, haha. My other is simply because that's **_**all**_ **she's ever really wearing, and I'm sick of it; red is my favorite color, and I don't always wear just red, you know? Though I hadn't thought of them having complementary colors, that's a great observation, haha!**

—•oOo•—

"I actually don't like green all that much."

Remy glances over at the woman sitting next to him. She's looking out, her jaw set stubborn, her arms folded over her drawn up knees, her legs bared from her yellow painted toenails all the way up to the cut-offs just barely covering her ass. Her arms are uncharacteristically bared, too, and she's busy catching freckles and a sunburn faster than she could've walked out to the mailbox and back.

_The heat finally got her_, he thinks, noting the heavy curls slipped from her ponytail to coil up in sweat at her nape and temples. She's been mulishly covering up from tip to toe all week, her temper matching the humid, high-nineties temperatures the whole while. He's learned she gets like that from time to time, usually after he gets a little under her skin, like he did before she'd flown off from that game he'd started.

Stubborn, beautiful, ridiculous, dramatic, unimpressed, fierce, utterly _fascinating_ woman, Rogue.

She's without doubt impressed him. Straight punched herself through the walls he keeps high with each snapped off 'rejection' to his advances, and then curled herself in around his heart and _squeezed_ during the softer moments. Moments that'd cracked her shell wide open to him, and she'd let him in a little.

He pulls out a smoke and lights up. "That so?" He asks after that first drag, making sure to blow the smoke away from her.

She doesn't answer right away, her only acknowledgement of him being a flick of her lashes at him. Her demeanor is no warmer now than it'd been when she'd plunked down next to him and then proceeded to stare out in silence for a solid ten minutes before saying anything.

She gets like this, quiet and somewhat resigned with him, each word given him almost begrudgingly, and he knows why. She's been avoiding him since the other night.

She does that a lot, too, fly off when things get a tad heated. He's gotten used to it.

If it weren't for her other tells, if it wasn't for his empathy picking up on every emotional spike, he'd have long since chalked her up to not interested in him, and moved along.

He waits her out. He's figured out that there are times to push her, and there are times to wait on her, and after she'd come to him is _not_ the time to push. It only sparks her pride and temper, and never ends well.

Finally, "yeah. I really only wear it 'cause it's kinda what redheads with green eyes are _supposed _to wear, ya know?"

"_Supposed _to wear, sha?" He asks, sliding her a curious look. He supposes she looks beautiful in green; of course she does. She's the sort of woman to stun the eyes right out a man's face no matter what she wears. But it's always struck him..._mopey_...on her. It always seems to suck out her vibrance and swallow it whole, and he kind of doesn't like it.

That, and it's predictable. He knows what she'd meant just now—every redhead always turns to green for the contrast. It's pretty, it's striking, and it's what is _done_.

That doesn't suit her at all, if anyone's asking him. She's every bit of a rogue at heart, she doesn't _do_ what is _done_ on anything.

Her shoulders twitch up irritably. "Well no, not _supposed _to, obviously." She fidgets, then waves her finger toward her eyes as she glances at him, adding, "it's 'cause of my eyes. Makes 'em pop a little more, I guess."

_Her eyes are her favorite feature_, he realizes, holding her gaze til she breaks away. He smiles a bit as he turns to his cigarette. He doesn't blame her there, her eyes are enough to snatch his breath out of his chest at times (most of the time) (all the time, if he's feeling honest).

"Like y' eyes, yeah?" He exhales out the other corner of his mouth, and he watches her glance back, said breathtaking eyes falling to his mouth.

_She wants to kiss me_, he thinks, and it thrills him. Which is sort of ridiculous, honestly, lots of women want to kiss him (and then some), and he's hardly ever unhappy to oblige. And this woman, if she could touch, she'd be so _easy_.

_So. Easy_!

She looks away and nods. "Yeah. Yeah, I like 'em." Then she snorts and snickers a little, sliding him a sort of impish look, like she's about to let him in on one of the biggest secret in the known universe. "You wanna know the _real_ reason why I first picked a green suit, though?"

He nods maybe a little too quickly, and he's maybe a little unsmooth, and his heart rate might've just sky-rocketed, but dammit, he can't be blamed, not when she's looking at him like _that_, about to share some inside joke he doubts anyone else knows—

"It's 'cause everyone else was wearin' all these _stupidass_ bright as hell uniforms, and I thought that was so dumb." She snorts again, this time a giggle bubbling out with it as she continues, "like, '_oh hi! We're the bad guys! See our bright whites, and reds, and purples, and yellows on our uniforms? Ain't we so easy to see? Ain't we easy enough targets, all glowin' in the dark and so colorful?!'_"

He laughs, because she isn't lying, he's thought the same thing. It's especially funny, considering that now they're both with the X-men, who have historically been so hellbent on maintaining anonymity and perhaps some degree of seclusion, yet they have absolutely no _style _or _finesse _in any of that. And both wearing bright-ass uniforms right along with them—

"And I don't even know what you're laughin' about, shug," she chortles at him, "you and your bright, blazing _pink_ flashin' all over the place, and loud-ass metal boots, actin' like you're some kinda _thief_."

She barely gets her last word out before cracking up. It's not a cute laugh, she snorts and does a loud, graceless thing somewhere between a cackle and a wheeze, and she looks ready to start slapping her leg at any second, positively _dying_ over her own wit.

It still kills him to hear it, to watch it bubble up from her toes and then get away from her. As strict as she is with herself, as much as she bottles herself up, tamps herself down with all her own little rules, to see her get a bit ridiculous (and honestly, a bit _un_cool) simultaneously eases something inside him, and squeezes something else.

He could do with _this_ Rogue.

Or maybe he couldn't. The other Rogue, the prickly, closed off one everyone usually gets, she's easier. She makes no demands, she causes no thud in his chest, and _she's _sort of a game. Winning would be sweet, but losing isn't a big deal.

_This_ Rogue, though…

_This_ Rogue is the one he'd met first, on Muir Island that night so many months ago.

_This_ Rogue is the one that had flirted, teased, then nearly whooped his ass and _then _kissed the fuck out of him after.

_This_ Rogue is infectious, _addicting_, and his is an addictive personality, especially when it comes to beautiful women.

_This_ Rogue, he could fall in love with, he's come to realize.

_This_ Rogue, he might've...already started falling for.

But it's okay, it's _fine_, because this Rogue rarely comes out to play. He has to work his ass off finessing this side out that woman, and she'll still reject every one of his advances, so it doesn't matter, not really.

It's _okay _if he kind of falls for one facet of the Rogue, because that's not really love, that's an ideal, and if there's one lesson he's ever gotten through his thick head, it's that the ideal is never real.

_Real_ is the fact that she can't touch. _Real_ is the fact that if she could, he'd touch and walk the morning after. _Real_ is the fact that he has nothing to give beyond his obvious uses, so he won't ever offer more.

_Real_ is the fact that even if he did, she wouldn't want him.

Because what she sees in him is an ideal of a sort, too, and that's all he has any business letting her see.

He shrugs and pulls another drag off his cigarette. "Well, I don' even see why you're attackin' me like this, considerin' you still picked a '_stupid-ass, bright as hell_' uniform wit' day-glow yellow down the middle, anyway. One might could argue that green y' so fond of is brighter than the blue everyone else goes for, and that yellow definitely be givin' my _magenta, thank you very much_, a run for it's money, yeah?"

"Pfffffft," she waves him off, "we ain't even talking about my current suit, that's another story for another day. The uniform I picked while makin' fun of everyone else's, though, I just went for the darkest one I could find in my size, 'cause I didn't wanna wait for a custom order." She shrugs. "Just so happened to be a dark green one."

_Pragmatic_, he thinks, and nods. He'd done similar when he'd first joined the X-men—his uniform had been destroyed in the first fight, and he'd gone with the only thing close to his size on hand til he got another of his own made.

She glances at him, and hoots again. "What're you over there noddin' about, I do _very_ distinctly recall _you _wearing one of those blue and yellows for a little while. And it didn't quite fit you right, either."

He flashes her a grin. "Oh, so y' noticed that, didja?" He feels a twitch in his dick watching her eyes dart away and her cheeks flush very blotchily at being so caught. That borrowed uniform had been for a man at least two inches shorter than him, which meant he'd had the male equivalent to camel toe. "Good to know you was lookin', chere," he adds, "I'd surely hate to think I was the lonely only doin' any of that in this here relationship."

"Relationship," she echoes, her tone already defensive, her laughter evaporating, her demeanor going stiff, "boy, this ain't no relationship. I can't do that, and you know it."

"So you keep sayin', chere." He shrugs and looks away. Pulls a drag off his smoke, feeling her gaze sharpening up on him. Feeling relieved that this Rogue is back instead of the light, giggling one. Feeling disappointment that he'd screwed up the conversation yet again to make the woman he's unfortunately falling ass over teakettle for retreat and start snipping at him again.

She looks away, lips flat, profile pinched, quiet long enough that he's sure she'll soon quit him and excuse herself. Then, "'so I keep sayin', you said, like what I keep tellin' you ain't the truth." She looks back at him, those damn _eyes_ pinning him where he sits. "Like relationships, and touchin', and all that stuff going with it is actually in the cards for me. Like you're actually looking for any of that with _me_, of all people." She pauses, chewing her cheek as her eyes turn shrewd, then adds, "like you're actually looking for any of that at all, shug?"

That _stings_, and he has to stop himself from flinching away. Because she's right, just what the hell _is_ he doing with her? Simply wanting what he can't have, playing with fire, as the professor had mildly accused him of doing?

If so, he's not being fair, and he knows it. And normally, 'fair' isn't a thing he practices with anyone, Always Tilting Shit In His Favor️ is the name of his game, but…

Like it or not, this Rogue or that one he sees from this time to the next isn't just _anyone_. There are those with who can play his games and come out fine on the other side, but she's not really one those women.

She's not at all, and that both thrills him and terrifies him, and it all spins him up in a rush, _every single time_ he engages her (because even he gets tired of his own bullshit sometimes and has to stop kidding himself).

Or…

Maybe he's not actually playing games with her. Maybe he _is_ wanting something with her. It won't end well, it can't, but maybe…

"Chere, I'm always looking for something out of someone," he finally answers, "you ain't any different in that regard." He takes a last puff off his smoke and charges the butt to ashes. "You just different in about every other way, is all." He glances over at her, a flirty grin ready and his mind set on at least one game in particular. "That's fine, though, 'cause I love green peas, I like coffee wit' whipped cream in it, and your eyes are the prettiest thing about you."

She blinks at him, surprise splashed all over her face, followed by perhaps the prettiest blush he's ever given a girl (which is saying something, all things considered…). "I...uh...I—thanks. I guess," she stumbles further over the compliment. Then she pulls herself in and shoots him a slit eyed look. "Wait. Was thatta a truth or a lie?"

He chuckles. "Don' know, beb, how about you tell me, yeah?"

"Well. I already know you dislike green peas. You don't always pick 'em out, but only times you don't are when you're in a hurry or too hungry to be bothered," she reasons, "but you also said you liked whipped cream, and I find it kinda hard to believe that _eyes_ are your favorite part of _any_ gal, so?" She stares hard for a moment, then her gaze darts off, and she fidgets the frayed ends of her shorts.

_So bold, yet so insecure_, he thinks, and he understands. Understands all _too_ well, despite his insecurities and hers being so different.

Or maybe not so different. His don't undermine his interactions with the opposite sex like hers do, but she's not living in a house of cards like he is. Either way you slice it, it ends with neither of them being very good at or for relationships, despite both wanting one of some kind so bad, it hurts to consider it.

"Well, I _do_ appreciate most every part on a beautiful woman as well as the next man, but I always been a sucker for pretty eyes," he replies lightly, his eyes sweeping her down and back to her profile. He waits til she glances over, til their gazes snag and hold before continuing, "and you, chere, you definitely got some eyes on you. Whether y' wear all that green or not."

She blinks, flushes, opens her mouth like she'd like to say something, then snaps closed and looks at her toes.

He turns out over the view from the rooftop, content to let her deal with that compliment and make her move.

Finally, "well. Same can be said for you, I suppose." Then she sniggers and adds, "whether you wear that loud-ass _pink_ or not."

He snorts. "Don't worry, Rogue, my _magenta_ ain't upstagin' your noisy yellow none, so don' go gettin' pantie-wadded about it, now."

"_Ha_!" She rejoins saucily, "I'm not worried about a thing, sugar, 'cause you and your _Lisa Frank pink _ain't affecting my panties at all."

He hoots at the stars as he watches a new blush call her a damn liar as it floods down clear into the dipped neckline over her tits. "That right, girl? Nothin' to worry about, my ass—_ouw_!" He half yelps, half laughs, rubbing his shoulder where she'd smacked him.

"Oh, knock it off, Cajun, I just barely tapped you," she rolls her eyes, but smiles at him. "And I'm _so sorry _your pink is so threatened by my yellow, but I really do think you need to calm yourself over there before I push you off this here roof, huh?"

He stares at her for a moment, taking in the smartass flash of her gorgeous eyes, the sultry smirk of a natural-born tease quirking up her soft mouth, and _Jesus fucking Christ _this is exactly how she'd been the night he'd met her, and he wants to yank her up and kiss her _so bad_—

"Nah, you good wit' the yellow, I like it on you jus' fine, chere," he manages in an even tone and a smooth smile, swallowing down everything bubbling up a little too close to the surface. "But listen, you keep up all that _dirty talk_ about pushin' me around and whatnot, and I might could have a thing to worry about right along wit' you, yeah?"

He'd intended that last comment to come out funny. Teasing, joking, flirting, _easy_. But maybe it'd been something in his voice. Or maybe he hadn't quite smoothed over that goddamn _naked _stare he'd given her a moment ago, because her breath catches, and her expression widens, and she's looking at him with those _damn eyes_ like even her super strength couldn't peel them off of him if she tried.

He looks away first, lighting up another cigarette. She wrinkles her nose and looks away, the moment broken.

He's not sorry about it. He has no business pursuing anything with this woman he's experiencing the colossally awful luck of falling in love with. He has no business earning that breathless, doe eyed look she'd just shot him with, either.

As the professor had warned him before, he can't play a game of hearts with Rogue. Not, and walk away with his own intact.

And damn him to his impulsive, greedy soul, he can't help himself, not with her.

_Might could have a thing to worry about, indeed_, he thinks, stealing a glance over at the fascinating woman next to him.

Might, indeed.


End file.
